Foresight: A Superhero Story

2. Broken Spoke

"Would you like anything else?" My voice is friendly, but it sounds fake to me. I've always hated customer service jobs. There's something repulsive about the artificial nature.

"No. That's it."

I take the customer's money and give her the change. I watch as she shuffles out the door. She stands just outside, lighting a cigarette. She puffs furiously while chatting on her phone.

I feel a slight tingling sensation on my left shoulder. I scratch my tattoo absentmindedly. With a sigh, I turn towards the clock on the wall. There's still an hour left of my shift. I grab the duster and run it along the shelves behind me. When I am finished, the slight tingling sensation returned to my shoulder.

"What the hell?" I mumble to myself as my tattoo begins to sting. My hand reaches into my shirt instinctively, searching for the source of my discomfort. I am only able to feel smooth skin.

I grab the bathroom key before leaving the register. By the time I walk across the building, my tattoo feels as if it is burning. I burst through the bathroom door, slamming it behind me. With a grunt, I pull my shirt over my head. I turn my back towards the cracked bathroom mirror, looking over my shoulder at the mirrors reflection.

"What the fuck?!" My breath hitches as the pain in my tattoo intensifies. I recoil from the pain. It feels as if I am getting inked all over again. I glance at my tattoo again while wincing in pain.

The sharp edges of my dream catcher tattoo begin to swirl under my skin. Panic constricts my throat, silencing my building cry. I can only watch in horror as my tattoo turns into a shapeless shadow.

The swirling ink soon begins to settle into a new shape. I watch through widened eyes as the shapeless ink blur restructures into a round shape. I look away, rubbing my eyes. I focus on steadying my breathing as the pain begins to subside.

When I look back in the mirror, I can see that the ink had stopped moving. On my shoulder, instead of a dreamcatcher, now laid an imposter. A detailed, wooden wagon wheel now lurked beneath my skin.

I ran my fingers over my sensitive skin, probing it. I swallowed the knot in my throat while looking at the wheel. The stinging, burning pain was now nearly gone. The skin surrounding the new tattoo was slightly pink, but the color was fading quickly before my eyes.

Within a few moments, it was as if the wagon wheel had always been a part of me. I continued gaping at the tattoo. My neck was beginning to ache from craning to look in the mirror.

Am I going mad?

I questioned my sanity as I continued staring at the tattoo. I rubbed it with my fingertips in disbelief.

How? How could this happen?

"Sylvie? You okay?" Mark's voice was filled with concern.

I quickly pulled my top back on and attempted to compose myself. I straightened my collar as I answered. "I don't know. I... I think I'm getting sick again."

I open the door reluctantly. Seeing my boss' wrinkled, worried face made me cringe. "I'll be okay. I- I just need to sleep it off."

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

Mark knew about my lack of sleep- only, he didn't know the full extent. I told him I had bad insomnia. Thankfully, I never had to elaborate further as he never asked. I didn't want to tell him anything at all, but my continued absences made him demand an answer.

I bite the inside of my cheek before lying. "I did sleep... I just didn't sleep well."

He sighed before giving me a sad smile. "Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

Mark once told me I reminded him of his daughter. Maybe that's why I can get away with so much. Sleeping on the job, scaring away customers, being rude to customers, and accidental theft only made up the tip of my bad employee title iceberg.

For example, a few months ago I drank several energy drinks while on the clock, and in my sleep deprived state I had forgotten to pay for them. Mark never even questioned me about it. My other coworker, Jack, said I left the empty cans on the floor behind the register. Funny thing is, I don't even remember drinking them.

I quickly grab my things and head out. I adopt a brisk pace as I walk down the street, attempting to make sense of what happened. I unconsciously grip my shoulder as I walk. I breathe in the familiar scent of the city, finding it equally attractive and repulsive.

What just happened?

I couldn't help but feel as though the wheel on my shoulder was somewhat familiar... Almost like I had seen it before. I stopped and tugged off my polo, opting to walk around in my tank top instead.

I twisted my head, glancing at the tattoo through the front window of a bakery. To my chagrin, the wagon wheel remained stubbornly on my shoulder. Upon closer inspection, I could see a crack running through one of the wheel's spokes.

Wait, I've seen this before!

There was a café just a short bus ride away. It was called The Broken Spoke. From its sign hung a small, busted wooden wagon wheel. I have eaten there several times in the past. The café was a small building nestled between a large hardware store and corporate offices for a banking company. It was a tiny remnant of the past slowly being smothered by new businesses.

I look up to find myself at the bus stop. I pause for a moment to ponder what I'm doing. Part of me just wants to go home and sleep this off. The other part of me is burning with curiosity. Why would my tattoo change to the symbol of a local Café? 

"Are you getting on or what?"

Startled, I look up to see the bus's driver staring at me in impatience. I hesitate for a second before hopping on.

I don't know what this is all about, but I'm going to get to the bottom of it.